He emerged from the botanical garden a block from the train station. He was crossing the street to check the videotape in the station locker when he saw pedestrians scatter from a car making an illegal U-turn. The civil outcry was so great that he didn’t see the car itself. He stayed on the boulevard’s central island and hurried past the station and along the switching yard. It was not an example of good survival planning to be surrounded by a wide boulevard with fast-moving traffic. The approaching street was Seidlstrasse, with his room and, farther on, the Soviet consulate. As tires slowed behind him he turned to face a familiar, disheveled Mercedes. At the wheel was Stas.

“I thought you wanted to see Irina.”

Arkady said, “I saw her.”

“You took off before she even finished her interview. You were in the booth one second and the next second you were gone.”

“I heard enough,” Arkady said.

Stas ignored the HALTEN VERBOTEN signs, blithely waving on the cars backed up behind him in the fast lane. “I came looking for you because I thought something was wrong.”

“At this hour?”

“I had work to do. I came when I could. How would you like to go to a party?”

“Now?”

“When else?”

“It’s almost ten. Why would I want to go to a party?”

Drivers behind Stas shouted, honked and flashed their lights in a chorus wasted on him. “Irina will be there,” he said. “You haven’t actually talked to her yet.”

“But I got her message. I got it twice in one day.”

“You think she doesn’t want to see you.”

“Something like that.”

“For a man from Moscow, you’re very sensitive. Look, in a second we’re going to be eaten alive by angry Porsches. Get in the car. We’ll just drop in at the party.”

“For another round of humiliation?”

“Have you got something better to do?”

The Party was up four flights in an apartment full of what Stas called “Retro Nazi.” The walls were checkered red-white-and-black with Nazi flags. On the shelves were helmets, Iron Crosses, gas masks in and out of canisters, various-sized ammunition, photographs of Hitler, his dental mold, a picture of Hitler’s niece wearing an evening gown and the wry smile of a woman who knows this is coming to no good end. The theme of the party was the first anniversary of the demolition of the Berlin Wall. Bits of the Wall—gray concrete with aggregate—were tied up with black crepe like birthday presents. People crowded the stairs, chairs and sofas, a mix of nationalities with enough Russians smoking enough cigarettes to make the eyes smart. Out of the haze, Ludmilla loomed like a long-lashed jellyfish, blinked at Arkady and disappeared.

Stas warned, “When you see Ludmilla, the deputy director is not far behind.”